


Ode To Boy

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Music, Deaf Character, Denial of Feelings, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mutual Pining, Pianist Yuuri, Slow Burn, singer Viktor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-11-06 07:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11031348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Oh,” Breathes Viktor, fighting a smile he knows will look out of place. Instead, he exhales and smooths out his expression into one of blank ease. The club waits in tandem until the performer tosses a smile out, gapped front teeth flashing for a few seconds. It feels like a lifetime of seeing pearly teeth disappear. Viktor hurts, feels vaguely warm.Viktor Nikiforov stands on the top of the music charts and the height of his life. Detroit has been good to him, giving him new sights to see and more songs to write. The Detroit Ice Castle Night Club is his only reprieve from the exhaustion of fame and constant harassment. Viktor's life begins to bore him when the lull of routine sets in.His life changes with a video link, a club night, and a pianist named Katsuki Yuuri.





	Ode To Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor receives a text from Christophe that spirals into a slightly tipsy night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter of Ode To Boy. The fic title and chapter title are based upon the names of famous poetry anthologies.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read. I hope you enjoy.

"And that's the end of our night for our 80's hits. Tune in next week for the top classics of the best era, every  Saturday, eight-"

The radio cuts off abruptly when he switches it off. His car begins to slow as he eases his foot off the gas, turning his wheel over and over in his hands until he manages to wedge himself into the tiny parking space across the street from his destination. The Ice Castle is already filling; it's Saturday night and the hour is prime with possibility.

Viktor Nikiforov pauses to tug his phone out of his back pocket, sliding it open. The screen displays his last texts:

**February 15th**

**22:24 P.M.**

**christophe_gc** : Vicky. Light of my life. Fire of my loins.

 **v_nikiforov** : Why do you always quote Lana Del Ray at me when you want to talk?

 **christophe_gc** : Because you love lana?

 **v_nikiforov** : Alas, I love trashy American pop.

 **v_nikiforov** : Ok so what did you want?

_christophe_gc sent a video message_

**christophe_gc** : ° ͜ʖ ͡ – ✧

 **christophe_gc** : Thank me later for pulling out my phone on the job ;)

_v_nikiforov has deleted this message_

_v_nikiforov has deleted this message_

**  
**  
Today 

**20:38 P.M.**

**v_nikiforov** : Tonihgt’s your shift at 9 right?

 **v_nikiforov** : *tonight sorry was typing fast

 **christophe_gc** : So you’ve decided to come watch him hmm? ;)

 **christophe_gc** : You’re gonna be a club kween on the downtown scene ;))

 **v_nikiforov** : Plz stop quoting Lana for two seconds and answer the question Chris, this is urgent info.

 **christophe_gc** : Yes it’s my shift you drama queen. Be there or be straight.

 **christophe_gc** : And remember to wear the green carnelian pin I bought you it’s lovely with your eyes.

_v_nikiforov sent a photo message_

**v_nikiforov** : I’d say the green does suit me well.

 **v_nikiforov** : (*´︶`*) See you at 9:15!

_✓ Read at 8:46_

 

_Viktor clicks Chris’ video play button, watching the video entrance he's memorized from countless analyzing for the past week. The camera wobbles, footage obviously taken from behind a bar; the scene enters with a blurry man sitting at a piano. Fingers shake in and out of the frame, presumably Chris’. Even through the grainy video feed, the expression of the pianist is evident– Adoration. He looks down at the keys laid out in front of him and lets his hands rest down. Gold fabric sweeps over his exposed shoulder blade, striking even in the questionable quality of a smartphone camera._

_A dulcet melody fills the silence the radio once occupied in Viktor's car— But he's had enough. The image of a man with his eyes closed, clasping his hands in front of a piano like a prayer is enough for him to remember for the rest of the night. He unlocks his glove box and slides the phone inside, catching a last glance at the man smiling to himself as his fingers play out sermons Viktor heard in church thirteen years prior._

A shiver cuts through him when he pops open his car door, wincing at the audible screech. Viktor's been procrastinating buying a new car- He needs a new one, fed up with his impossibly old 1986 Jaguar and all it's temperament issues. But still, like all things in his life, the twenty-three year old is hesitant to change.

'Should've brought a heavier jacket.' Muses Viktor to himself, drawing his suit jacket further around himself as if it could suddenly shut out the biting wind digging into his face. The breeze cuts straight through his thin dress shirt, curling into the taut lines of his skin the longer he remains on the curb. A brisk pace finds its way in his muscles, not registering in his mind. He's too lost in thought to pay attention to where he walks, nearly hitting a street sign in his haste to get inside, somewhere warm. Detroit in the early spring isn't the most forgiving place. It reminds Viktor too much of Saint Petersburg, the residency which he'd taken until he was old enough to travel himself.

(The thought strikes him as a bit odd. He'd known his hometown as Leningrad for the earliest days of adolescence, and the new name had never stuck in his mind. America had grown into him, bleeding into his memories of childhood with bitterness. Still, he knows the language of his youth better than he'd known anything else in his relatively short life, and he'll speak with the dregs of an accent until the day he forgets Russian altogether.)

"You need to get going if you wanna catch the early crowd," Viktor chastises himself, stepping up the stone stairway to the entrance of the Ice Castle. Inviting blue twinkle lights blink at him from the window stills, illuminating the sharply dressed guests milling, setting champagne glasses sparkling like gems caught in the light. He takes one last deep lungful of cold air before opening the door. He almost trips himself over the rugs in his haste- the club is comfortably warm, filled with the scents of alcohol and cigars. It’s an atmosphere Viktor recognizes well. Wafts of incense catch at his arms, tug at his hands to remind him that the air smells like his apartment. Secondhand smoke, rum; the comfort of his new home, devoid of unpleasant memories. A pang of something touches Viktor's chest, but only for a moment; the feeling is gone.

A tantalizing bass line thrums through the club, setting its tempo with the rush of blood in Viktor's pulse. His feet carry him to the last barstool on the left, in front of a blonde bartender, dressed scantily and already waiting for him to sit down. Viktor raises a hand, cutting the bartender off before he even begins to speak.

"Dirty Martini. Stirred, please," Viktor waves his hands dismissively, "And no, not here to talk about my sex life, or lack thereof. No dramatics tonight, please, dear Christophe." Viktor alights himself on his chair, unbuttoning his suit jacket with haste and laying over the back of his stool. The action makes him feel underdressed, but it's too stuffy for extra layers.

"Good to see you too, cher, you look _ravishing,_ " Christophe rolls his eyes back, pulling bottles of vodka and vermouth from under the bar, "He's scheduled on in ten." The drink mixer shakes in time with the pluck of a bass string. A full glass is set in front of Viktor no more than thirty seconds later, catching the gold and blue disco lights that circle around the bar. Viktor flicks his hand in thanks and Christophe flits off to other customers awaiting service. Sentences of unconnected words wrap around Viktor's head, hardly registering as speech.

Even if he wasn't up for conversation, Viktor feels oddly lonely when Christophe leaves him to his own devices. An appreciative hum leaves him when he takes the first sip of his drink; bitter and dry. He swallows heavily, brushing a stray droplet from the corner of his lips.

Viktor turns his hands in the soft colour spotlights sweeping over his skin, turning his nail beds blush pink, slate blue, champagne gold. The singer tries not to cringe when he bites into one of the olives in his glass - even if he enjoyed martinis, the taste of vodka-soaked olive was never a particularly pleasant one - and sets the now unoccupied toothpick on the edge of the bar. It's swallowed by a pool of condensation. He sympathizes.

Viktor is glad to be away from the centre of attention for only the small beat of time as he turned back to observe the band playing. Bassist, dwarfed by his instrument; saxophonist blaring high melodies; trumpets cutting through the air to the beat.

Contentedness splashes across Viktor's features, sharp angles and planes relaxing for a quiet beat. Club lights sweep over his collar, brushing his hands as he lifts his glass once more, observing the moderate crowd of early clubbers stepping and talking across the floor. No doubt his manager (and adoptive father), Yakov Feltsman, would have a fit over texts concerned for his whereabouts left unanswered, but Viktor needed the night to himself.

The thick atmosphere clouds over him, staunch with cigar smoke and sweet champagne. Somehow, no one has approached him yet, asking for a photo or an autograph. He knocks on the lacquered-wood bar, just in case.

The mood shifts as the current band pulls to a close, melodies lilting off into a descrescendo'd minor note; lightheartedness fills contenders of the bar. Viktor finds his eyes shutting, dress shoes tapping the tile underneath him in time with the ending song. He feels content, and safe– No one expects anything of him in that moment, except to smile politely and keep taking sips of his drink as the night wears on. (For a moment, he almost forgets why he came).

Scuffling and quiet talking ensue; conversation from patrons quickly fills the silence left by the departing band. Viktor joins in on the polite applause, patting his thigh with vigor and toying with the rim of his glass with his left hand. A few minutes of lull pass, without event nor another performer.

Another acrid sip of vodka and vermouth goes down, burning the lining of Viktor's throat slow. Snippets of conversations float past him. English words tug at his attention, not quite registering with his brain fast enough. Still, he takes a passive interest in watching patrons mill about the club. It's quiet and subdued, allowing him a moment to cross his ankles over his bar stool and watch without seeing.

The lukewarm wetness of condensation on his fingertips is a pleasant sensation as Viktor circles the rim of his glass with long, manicured fingers turned blue in cold light. Flicking off the droplets clinging to his skin, Viktor rests his hands in his lap, dully taking a fixation with watching blurs of people cross through his field of view.

Viktor's fingernails skim over the back of his palm, picking at skin almost nervously the previous performers exit the stage. Another quiet bit of clapping floats through the patronage, Detroit's upper class praising the wiles of jazz in a new place in their minds.

"Vik, he's getting ready to perform. You want a refill before you trip and fall head over heels?" Teasing from Christophe hardly phases Viktor; instead, he turns around to flash Chris a practiced, easy smile.

"Yes, a refill would be lovely. Put it on my tab, Giacometti, and then hush, please. I want to listen to him play.” He watches Christophe pluck the glass off the table with a pointed smirk, filling it halfway with the same mixture of vermouth and vodka Viktor’s been drinking for years. Chris sets it down and tosses a wink Viktor’s way.

“Don’t give me that look. I’m just observing another performer,” Viktor defends, tapping his nails against the base of his glass. Olives the shade of Christophe’s sparkling eyes bubble about.

“You ‘observed’ that video the same way a dying man ‘observes’ water, _Nikiforov_. But I’ll do as you say, since flirting with customers other than you is in my job description.”

Viktor thanks him again for the drink and turns back around, uncrossing his ankles and stepping off his stool in a fluid motion. The glass in his hand attempts at violent upheaval. Another bout of uncoordinated applause peels through when someone steps out from the side of the curtain. Viktor dodges around people with his drink clutched to his chest, desperate for a view of the man he can’t reach.

“Pardon me,” He murmurs, more for his own benefit than anyone else’s. More of the piano pans into his view, an overwhelming feeling of coldness settling in the bottom of his stomach. The sensation of indigestion when one has eaten close to nothing is rather unsettling.

A small head bowed over ivory strikes Viktor on sight; deep brown skin shows starkly against the white keys it rests upon. The view is nearly high definition- Oil slick hair, pushed back hastily, spilling over the man’s eyes. (They’re copper pennies, alive with a passion akin to infatuation. Viktor is enamoured.)

The immediate stab in the left rib grows harsh when Viktor sucks in the oxygen he had been withholding. Pale, cherry blossom taffeta floats over arms lain upon the piano, waterfallen skirt smoothed over long legs tucked under the bench.

“Oh,” Breathes Viktor, fighting a smile he knows will look out of place. Instead, he exhales and smooths out his expression into one of blank ease. The club waits in tandem until the performer tosses a smile out, gapped front teeth flashing for a few seconds. It feels like a lifetime of seeing pearly teeth disappear. Viktor hurts, and feels vaguely warm.

It hurts worse (but feels incredible) when the pianist begins to play, and the first notes of _Stammi Vicino_ breach any kind of sin Viktor may have professed, that day or in a lifetime. He taps the glass in his hand. Another toss back leaves it nearly drained. His throat burns, stomach laden with alcohol, but he feels lighter than he has in weeks, liberated.

Viktor murmurs with the song, “ _Questa storia che senso non ha_ ,” ignoring the people that turn to look at him. The sight he’s beholding is too bewitching to ignore, a gorgeous, angelic presence of a man playing the song Viktor’s most famous for.

The pianist isn’t singing, just playing the song, but the meaning feels just the same. Longing, melodious, shifted in key to create what language cannot. Viktor's head fuzzes over.

* * *

 

The pianist only plays one song.

When the last of _Stammi Vicino_ dies and Viktor feels a vice lift off his throat, the pianist stands; a vision of angels smiles to the crowd, blush spreading down his chest in the clamour of praise. Whistles and loud clapping drown out any lingering melodies left in the atmosphere. The man pushes back tendrils of hair- they fall back over his ears, gel ungluing. Viktor's heart stutters painfully when the pianist's bronze eyes soften, catching hues of gold and violet disco lights, and he turns away, leaving the stage in a flourish. Silk trails down his back. (The pale pink fabric hurts Viktor's eyes to watch it disappear.)

Chatter and laughter fill the empty space left by the lack of music, the world resuming in its activities without issue. It's Viktor who turns- once, twice, trying to decide whether to leave or to stay for a few more hours. His purpose for the night has been met; he takes the coward's route.  Stubborn alcohol spills over his shoes when he drops his glass a bit forcefully on the counter, shoving bills underneath it from his rumpled coat. Viktor's fingers feel numb. The empty-stomached feeling has returned, along with an unsteady heartbeat and a shortness of breath. The harsh sensations bring clarity back to the world.

Cigarette smoke lingers on Viktor's hands when he shoves his suit jacket back on, ignoring the call of his name he barely hears at all. He leaves the Ice Castle in the same manner he entered it- rushing to get through the doors. There's a small crowd being held back, now, by the bouncer that hadn't given him a second glance- Camera shutters go off in Viktor's eyes, overlapping speech hitting him harshly. dumping agitation into the muddy waters of thoughts spinning on the highest wash cycle in his brain. His head hurts now, gaze darkened by the afterimage of flash, shouts of 'Mr. Nikiforov!' blurring into him. The singer is used to it, but being held up when he wants to just go home is irritating.

Viktor manages to give a blank smile. His cheeks feel split. The paparazzo follows him to his car, yelling incessantly about his new hometown, why he moved- But he shuts down and slams the door of his car shut, collapsing into white leather seats. The twenty-three year old sucks in a breath of thick, staunch air, and peels out of the parking lot. He just hopes he doesn't hit a reporter speeding out of downtown Detroit. Viktor knows he shouldn't be driving after the martinis, but getting away is more demanding to him than calling a taxi for a fifteen-minute drive.

He sighs as he pulls into his parking space, letting his head fall back against his seat. The night had gone much too fast- Too many shifts to register so quickly, to overwhelming to deal with. The space he felt sanctioned in had been found, bones picked clean and cadaver uploaded for magazines to scavenge the next publication. No doubt Chris would have a field day defending his territory- He was, after all, the manager of the Ice Castle, underneath Takeshi and Yuuko Nishigori. Viktor hadn't met the owners formally but knew Chris held down the building more often than not when the Nishigoris had to stay with their children. Hopefully, by the next Saturday, the press would leave the Ice Castle be so he could return. The building had been so inviting, burrowing under his skin not unpleasantly.

Viktor clicks open his glove compartment, plucking out his phone and shoving it in his pocket before the screen can light with another notification. His car groans when he slides out, coughing at him when the door slams shut a little harder than needed. The young man's throat dries uncomfortably as he fumbles with his building key, thumbing at his small poodle keychain. His steps feel heavy and laboured as he climbs up the stairs, unlocking his door and kicking it shut behind him. The lamp he flicks on burns his eyes.

His couch sags underneath Viktor's weight as he collapses down, greeted by the tinkling of a bell. A brown ball of energy launches itself at him, licking hot breath across his cheeks. A genuine smile replaces the ghost of his media grin.

"Hey, Makka. I missed you too, sweet girl," Viktor buries his hands in Makkachin's fur, breathing in the soft earthy smell of her short curls. It's a comfort and a pang of loneliness- The only person he has to come home to, no matter how much he loves her, is a poodle. The thought is replaced when a wet kiss slops across his eye, laughter pealing through his dim apartment. The room seems to brighten, if not incrementally. "Alright, you, get down. I'll get you a treat."

Makkachin barks heartily at him. Viktor slips his phone out of his pocket, letting his jacket fall to the carpet with a dull thump. Several notifications greet him as he rummages through his kitchen drawers.

**21:57 P.M.**

**7 Missed Calls**

**12 Messages**

**8 Notifications**

Viktor hands the dog bone he finds to Makkachin, patting her absently while he thumbs his phone open. He knows most of the angry texts will have been from his father, pissed that he was noticeably absent for the night. Sometimes, Yakov didn’t know when being a manager stopped and being a father began.

**Today**

**21:18 P.M.**

**Georgi Popovich** : I apologize for texting you given the late hour, but we need to go over some of the fine details of your contract with Yuzuru Records at the earliest convenience. I’ll send you my schedule so we can coordinate a meeting.

_Georgi Popovich sent a calendar link_

**Today**

**21:23 P.M.**

**yuri_plisetsky** : Hey old man why the fuck are you in detroit

 **yuri_plisetsky** : Dad is storming around getting pissed that you’re not answering him and it’s getting annoying

 **yuri_plisetsky** : Im starting to see why he’s pissed you fucking idiot

 **yuri_plisetsky** : Dad says if you don’t pick up his calls he’s going to whoop your ass

 **yuri_plisetsky** : Im stealing your credit card info if you don’t answer me by 10

**Today**

**21:58**

**v_nikiforov** : Take a chill pill, princess, I was visiting with Chris. Stay away from my bank accounts.

 **yuri_plisetsky** : thats viktor speak for “I was getting fucking smashed crying at the bar because I have no boyfriend or meaningful life” like the loser you are

 **yuri_plisetsky** : dont call me princess or I’ll smash your kneecaps in

 **v_nikiforov** : Whatever you say, your highness.

 **yuri_plisetsky** : Shut the fuck up

 **v_nikiforov** : Isn’t it past your bedtime, sleeping beauty?

_yuri_plisetsky sent a link: How To Disown Your Family On Wikihow_

**yuri_plisetsky** : by the way Dad saw the photos of you coming out of ice castle so there’s no way I can save your ass now lol

 

Viktor snorts, drawing a curious look from the poodle sniffing at his dress shoes. His brother, Yuri, prickly as he was, had the right intentions at heart. He just goes about them like a brat.

Getting to his feet, Viktor falls back on the couch and pats his thigh, groaning when Makkachin jumps on his stomach with fervor.

“God, you’re too heavy,” He wheezes, half-glaring at his obliviously happy poodle. Makkachin just licks his hand, covering his phone in drool. “Gross,” Viktor whines, wiping his phone on Makka’s curls. The domesticity he longs for most days has set. Deadlines and contracts fall away until all that’s left is Viktor, his dog, and his apartment. The quiet buzzing of cicadas floats through his bay windows, settling in his bones as an old friend he knew back in the twilights of Saint Petersburg. (Again, the name change is unnerving to him. He doesn’t remember the last time he stubbornly knew his town as Leningrad.)

The tranquility of a half second breaks when Viktor’s phone buzzes in his hand.

**Incoming Call From**

**Papa**

Sighing, Viktor rubs his fingers over Makkachin’s ear for luck before he accepts the call. He expects angry Russian to spout at him any minute.

“ _Viktor Mikhail Nikiforov, I’m disappointed in you. Where the hell are you?”_  Yakov’s voice hisses at him, far too loud for the late hour and gentleness of the night. The full name pull means he’s pissed, but it happens at least every other conversation they have.

“Well, last I checked, I was in my house, like a normal person,” Viktor felt his eyes start to shutter, petting Makkachin gently. She whines, shoving her head further under his palm. The sight was a sweet one, interrupted by his father yelling at him again.

 _“Don’t give me attitude right now. I can still whoop your ass if I feel so inclined. I’ve been trying to reach you for the last two weeks and now all I get is pictures of you clubbing from the press team? In Detroit, of all god forsaken fucking places?”_ Viktor can imagine the steam bursting from his father’s ears, hissing and spitting at him.

“I wasn’t clubbing,” a half truth, “Chris had something we needed to talk about. I left my phone in my car so I wouldn’t be distracted. Would it kill you all to leave me be for one night?” A full truth. Sighing, Viktor hauls himself from the couch, kicking his discarded jacket up into his open hand.

His apartment is left in various shades of disarray, a picture of abandonment and neglect on the part of its residency. Piling dishes and a full laundry basket lend themselves to the illusion of scattered living.

 _“Yes, it'd kill us, every idiotic, bright eyed reporter is latching onto the dead meat that gets thrown to him. You’re fueling the fire. Disappearing without telling us, moving to a new city, not producing by deadlines— Your job is not a fun side project, Vit’ka. Have you even looked at the new proposition from the label?”_ Viktor hears the sigh, the pinch of the nose bridge. The, “I’m disappointed in your performance”, passive disdain.

“Yak- Papa, it’s late. I need time to think over the deal and go over new ideas. Can we please continue this conversation in the morning when I’m more clear-headed?” Viktor throws an arm over his eyes, blinking away the dullness of the lights. Makkachin again whines at him and pads off, nails clicking towards her owner’s bedroom. A disdainful huff reaches Viktor’s left ear.

 _“Sober the hell up and call me tomorrow as soon as you wake up. Don’t be stupid, but take care of yourself too, Vit’ka. I worry about the next way you’ll jeopardize all our careers.”_ A snort leaves Viktor, carrying off into the empty apartment air. His father chooses to show his concern in the brashest of ways, but it’s endearing all the same.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Papa. Give Yurochka my undying love.”

The call drops, end tone buzzing in Viktor’s ear. He lets the phone fall from his hand to the couch. Rough calluses bump over his face as he reaches his hand to his hair, tugging at spun silver angrily. His head hurts, his spine burns from tension. A taste like battery acid roils in his stomach.

Viktor’s phone flashes again, and he moves for it; drops his palm from his face and fumbles it open. Another message from Chris in the multitude of the last hour has arrived.

 

**Today**

**21:45**

**christophe_gc** : Viktor whered you take off to? The pianist came back out to talk a bit with the Nishis you missed him

 **christophe_gc** : Dammit your photographer friends are swarming the entrance and you did not look good when you ran out they’re gonna eat you alive

 **christophe_gc** : Can i get an assault charge if i slam someone’s hand shut in a door?

**Today**

**22:04**

**v_nikiforov** : Hey, sorry I took off. I wasn’t feeling well and Yakov wanted to talk to me.

 **christophe_gc** : I’m gonna call bull but okay Nikiforov

 **v_nikiforov** : I’m sorry about all the media guys they always seem to find me

 **christophe_gc** : It’s fine, just.. Take care of yourself. You’re acting kinda strange

 **christophe_gc** : by the way our piano friend is named Yuuri and he’s preforming for the next few weeks on Thursdays and Saturdays during my 9 p.m. shifts

 **v_nikiforov** : I’ll make a point to come see you then.

 **christophe_gc** : I’m not sure if it’s me who you’re really coming to see, but I’ll be flattered anyway (*´꒳`*)

 **v_nikiforov** : I’m gonna sleep off the martinis. Thank you for inviting me tonight

 **christophe_gc** : Why of course mon cher go to bed and wake up bright and early for the tabloids ° ͜ʖ ͡ – ✧

 **v_nikiforov** : haha very funny

 

Quietly, Viktor opens his calendar, ignoring the missed meeting and recording notifications.

_You have set a recurring event: “Ice Castle”, Thursdays and Saturdays, 20:30._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading the first chapter of Ode To Boy. Updates will continue to roll out every two weeks on Mondays. 
> 
> I am reachable on tumblr at usaoca and twitter at qommunisms. Feedback is appreciated and welcomed. Any offers of ideas or continuations are appreciated. 
> 
> Thank you.


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